Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

"All the officers have hidden away." Caman asked skeptically, "Could it be that the 'Sixth Legion' is not affected at all?"

"Of course there will be impact, but it's better than having the officer corps wiped out for nothing." Winters attempted to correct Caman's misconception, "On the battlefield, there's no strategy that results in complete victory or defeat. Every commander seeks ways to win within various unfavorable constraints."

Caman rubbed his forehead, squinted his eyes, and asked, "A magician is not a mindless beast. After falling into traps a few times, they will also understand your strategy. By then, can you still expect them to foolishly fall into traps?"

"The brilliance of this strategy lies in." Winters answered mysteriously, "Because magicians are not mindless beasts, the traps become even more effective."

A sudden flash of insight struck Caman's mind. He carefully pieced together his thoughts and words, "You mean, because the Emperor's wizards are aware of your strategy, they become hesitant and cautious, fearing to strike easily."

Winters shook his head with a smile, "Even further than what you said."

"Even further?" Caman was bewildered.

"Many so-called 'traps' are not even fake 'high-value targets.'" Winters paused for a moment, and with the utmost respect, told Caman word by word, "On the first day the Old Marshal stationed himself at Narcissus Fort, he buried three thousand pounds of explosives in the central Bastion; General Antoine-Laurent's letter said that every night when he closed his eyes, he was ready to perish along with the Pretender Emperor's lackeys."

"No matter what powers a court mage possesses, they are still human; they dare not engage in battles with no return; they fear death. But we..." Winters paused, "But the martyrs of that era did not fear death. They scorned death. They simply couldn't use magic, but in terms of courage, they were a hundred, a thousand times braver than the Pretender Emperor's lapdogs."

Winters heavily concluded, "So, the sovereignty war is what we won."

Caman was speechless for a long time. After a while, he nodded with difficulty, acknowledging Winters' words.

"So, my injuries." Winters leaned back in his chair with ease. His upper body, in areas not protected by armor, was covered with scabbed cuts. His chest, protected by armor, was covered with large areas of unshed bruises and swelling, "What do they count as?"

Caman was silent for a while, then suddenly asked, "However, you wouldn't want Miss Navarre to see you like this, would you?"

Winters was momentarily speechless.

He quickly propped himself up with the armrest and sat upright, eagerly looking at Caman, "So, I can only rely on you, Father."

Caman folded his arms, circling around Winters, "Flesh wounds, no need for medicine, just let them heal on their own. The key is the bone injury under your ribs, which is similarly difficult to treat, and must wait for self-healing."

Then, Caman gave a barrage of medical advice, "Don't ride horses, don't get angry, don't lift your arm—in short, don't do anything that would aggravate the injury."

"You want me to." Winters seemed a bit disappointed, "Rest quietly."

"Yes. Rest quietly."

Winters tentatively asked, "Besides resting, is there any way for me to heal faster?"

Caman thought briefly and answered, "Drink more milk, get more sunshine, and... sleep on your back, don't sleep on your side."

Winters gently prodded, "Besides what you said, is there any more direct intervention, like..."

Caman's brow furrowed again, a few cold laughs floated from his throat, "Like Divine Arts."

"Yes." Winters no longer hid his intentions, straightforwardly asking, "Why not use Divine Arts?"

Simultaneously, a look of pity and anger appeared on Caman's face. He took a great deal of effort to calm his emotions, organize his words, and ultimately explained to Winters with great restraint, "Divine Arts are not the mortar of masons, applied wherever it is broken. It is a miracle, an authority, a power, not wielded by us but manifested through our hands. It must achieve the promised result, and that result is not shaped by us..."

Winters, who was listening intently, suddenly spoke, "Impossible."

Caman was momentarily stunned by the interruption, "What?"

"What you said so much can be summed up in one sentence—it! Can't! Be! Done!"

Winters couldn't help but laugh heartily. As he laughed, the pain from his sides was stimulated, causing him to inhale sharply in a rather humorous manner, "It seems that even the omniscient and omnipotent Creator God can't do anything about my rib."

Caman's face turned dark instantly. He stood up abruptly and walked towards the medical kit without a word. When he returned, a deboning knife appeared in his hand, one that only a butcher would use.

Winters' hair stood on end, "What are you going to do?"

"Treat the wizard's illness." Caman replied, with a double meaning.

Winters retreated behind the chair like lightning, the pain numbed by the adrenaline rush. Although his intellect told him that today's scenario wouldn't end with "only one could stand," his intuition sensed an unprecedented threat.

What would happen if Divine Arts were applied to torture? Just envisaging it in his mind made it clear that the fire rack would be considered a merciful death.

Winters quickly surveyed the battlefield—the office's exit was behind Caman, and jumping out of the window carried too high a cost to dignity.

Caman advanced step by step, explaining seriously, "The wound is internal. To use Divine Arts, you must cut through skin, fat, and tendons to reach the bone to apply the Arts accurately."

Winters keenly spotted a loophole, "Can Divine Arts not work through flesh and blood?"

Caman politely smiled but did not directly answer.

He flicked the blade, which gleamed coldly, and it resonated with a clear sound, "Don't worry, if you don't struggle, it will leave only a very shallow scar."

Winters tightly gripped the only available weapon—the armchair—and retreated repeatedly, "No need! Resting quietly is fine!"

"Didn't you boast that you weren't afraid of death?" Caman asked with a smile, "Why are you afraid of surgery?"

At these words, Winters stopped his retreat and stood still.

This action surprised Caman quite a bit. Caman looked at Winters without a change in expression, waiting for him to speak.

"Fine!" After intense internal debate, Winters finally clenched his teeth and decisively responded, "At least it can serve as a sample for the Divine Arts experiment—then let's do it."

But he uneasily asked again, "But I vaguely remember, didn't you say 'bone injuries can't be treated with Divine Arts, or the injured might die instead'? Why can rib bones be treated with Divine Arts? Is there something special about rib bones?"

"Nothing special." Caman calmly shook his head, "Applying Divine Arts to rib injuries, the recipient is just as likely to die."

Winters was taken aback for a moment, then let out a furious roar.

The roar alerted the people downstairs.

The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs echoed, and Caman smiled at the noise, seemingly without any sudden movement, but the blade disappeared from his hand.

The door was pushed open.

Anglu burst in with a drawn sword.

Pierre followed closely behind.